Last spring I got a new dog, Khaleesi, Protector of the Dale Kingdom, Mother of Maltipoos. Spring in Georgia is glorious, in spite of the pollen becoming sentient and trying to choke us to death, and every day I put my new little BFF on her leash and took her for a walk. A short walk. She’s the size of a large squirrel and I’m super lazy. We’d trot around the neighborhood and I’d smile as she tried to find the perfect spot to drop her fun size Tootsie Roll.
I wanted to be supportive, so I’d give her verbal encouragement. “Great spot, girl. I think you’ve really outdone yourself this time. I see that you prefer pine needles to grass and I support that. Easier pick up, probably feels cleaner on your paws. I’m impressed with your decision-making skills.” Women should affirm each other’s choices.
When she’d hear the crinkle of me shoving a plastic grocery bag in my pocket, the siren song of an imminent walk, she’d trot excitedly to the door. And as I pulled the bag out of my pocket and bent down to scoop up the poop, I’d sing to her, “I like the way you work it, no diggity, I gotta bag it up!”
Our walks together continued twice a day through the heat of summer and the cool of fall. But here in the winter months, they’ve taken a dark turn. For even here in Georgia, winter is coming. In the morning, there’s frost on the ground, it’s usually dripping just-shy-of-freezing rain, and it’s pitch black outside for both our morning and evening walks.
Instead of sniffing happily, Khaleesi races from bush to bush desperately looking for a spot before her urethra freezes clean shut and instead of singing encouraging songs, I stare intensely at her red eye, willing it to open and release its load into the fell air so we can get the frick inside.
Sometimes making poop is birdies chirping and spring flowers, and sometimes it’s cold and uncomfortable. Kinda like writing and parenting. READ MORE